


Servicing

by IncurableNecromantic



Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (2020)
Genre: I may have accidentally written him as being overly sympathetic, M/M, Masturbation, but I assure you he is still That Bitch and will be addressed as such, if you don't think robotnik has an m.d. & a dds in the collection, mechanical maintenance as a metaphor for sex, no wait both, no wait vice versa, sexy thoughts of Stone as a mechanic, which (given the description of badniks as babies) has interesting paternal connotations, you're lying to me & you're lying to yourself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23676202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: You know what he loves about machines? They do what they're told.The organic machine is always a little subtler in its rebellions.
Relationships: Dr. Eggman | Dr. Robotnik/Agent Stone
Comments: 13
Kudos: 104





	Servicing

He tried not to hold the human body against himself.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Electrical impulses like those which are commonly attributed to consciousness were crackling along the whole universe at mathematically predictable yet highly volatile speeds and distances. It was a species of happy coincidence in the first place, that despite the astronomical improbability that his particular batch of electrical impulses would synthesize and cohere, they nevertheless folded neatly into the exquisite crumpled waves of neurons and fatty tissues that made up his brains. Any sloppiness of the vessel or inefficiency of the system was neither more nor less than another opportunity to prove his genius.

Every human body was a machine. A feeble, ungainly, poorly-designed, repugnant machine; but a machine nevertheless, and possessed of a certain primitive efficiency, like that of a tardigrade. The philosophically-inclined would imagine it became easier to appreciate the good things, thrown into high relief by the slowness and clumsiness of the plodding human machine.

And his body was better than most. His mind moved approximately 3.97 times as fast as the base average human being (the damn K from Fujitsu had him beat by a hair, but he didn’t have it in him to resent such a splendid, lovely thing). Unless he intended to snap his suspension, his body had to operate 2 to 2.5 times as fast as the base average human being, as well. He produced an enormous amount of steam. Running an overcurrent too regularly would damage his precious balance. He burnt through fuses like nobody’s business.

Robotnik understood machines and their needs. Even a genius of his caliber could acknowledge a certain facile elegance in the Euclidean spareness of his existence. He consumed only the most efficient fuel and regularly rested the precise duration required to remain at the highest consistently-possible energetic output. He designed himself more properly to suit his function and (loathsome concept, and yet) taste. At regular intervals he vented, whenever his engine was close to overspinning, sparks flying in every direction, and his steam needed a valve. Dancing or roaring would suffice. Both, on occasion. They always had before.

Until.

* * *

His exquisitely-tuned sensors registered the rising pressure several days in advance. The control center of his brain snapped out a response and dulled the ache until there would come a convenient moment to address the problem; Azerbaijanistan was, at present, significantly more interesting. Uprisings were always fun and Agent Stone had exercised that modicum of good sense that made him so minimally-acceptable an assistant by cleaning and charging the delectably inappropriate P3ACEnik before they left. It would be annoying to interrupt for such a tedious project.

Internal memos were filed. Rescheduled events were proposed. But the sensors knew (in as much as a sensing thing could “know") that there would be no convenient moment.

In time his system made another bid, one that seemed as though it should be more likely. He was at ease in the lab, alone with the doors locked at 03:00. He was doing some light reading, idly skimming the classified contents of the databanks of the Bundesnachrichtendienst, and drinking a glass of wine. (Riesling. Natürlich.)

Out of nowhere heat sloshed through his fuel tank and his carburetor rattled something fierce. The heat beamed up towards his face, hot blood splotching over his cheeks. Disoriented, a little afraid, he sat very still in his chair and waited for the next sign.

Of course. The sensors. He was approaching 100 percent efficiency, if the perfection tattle was making its presence felt thus. The tension caused his body to prickle. He crossed his legs.

It was very inconvenient. He did not want to. He held the ice-cold glass to one cheek and focused his attention inward, parsing the superheated steam that must even now be sufficiently volatile to push apart two rather heavy tandy pieces (not wholly dissimilar in shape calabrian underglides) and rise through the secret flue directly into his brain.

The steam coughed up a thought — obsessive, erotomaniacal — of hands. He sneered at himself, energy roiling. Is that all this was? Just a pair of sleek, intentional, capable hands that did not shake in the presence of loud noises or drop important documents or ever, ever land where they weren’t directed? Hands with a callus on the skin between the right index intermediate and proximal phalanges, where repeated friction from a trigger had caused slight, useful scarification.

Hands that had placed the Riesling in the icebox in his quarters.

Hands that — the perfection tattle rasped — would know where they would find their most valued use. Where they were wanted.

He sprang to his feet and snapped his teeth on the thin air. A _want_ , after all this work! Wants were the lies weaknesses dressed in. He had needs, nothing more! And he had vented just hours earlier, releasing his excess kinetic energy to the strains of No Diggity. He didn’t need to vent this way. He wouldn’t.

He necked the last of wine and shattered both bottle and glass against the fume hood.

He did not require such things. He would not acknowledge this weakness.

And it was not that he was embarrassed. If he’d been born with or in any way initially predisposed to the experience of shame, he’d peeled it away in double no-time.

That is, shame in social circumstance. Minor, minimal, _rare_ mistakes in calculations could still mortify him.

He came online at 05:00 a week later. His double-mutterer was malfunctioning, shorting out with the force of the vivid dreams he’d encountered in his terse 3 hours of unconsciousness. Panting for breath and flushed with heat, he could envision his internal contraptions hissing and whistling, cables unwinding and forcing several sets of Newtonian governors to spin. He jammed his fingers under his jaw and felt at the pulse, trying to count the seizing of his carburetor. Rapid. A collapse of the power train was all-but guaranteed.

His corpora cavernosa had filled with blood. The ischiocavernosus and bulbospongiosus muscles had compressed, restricting egress of blood back out. His penis was hot, and sensitive; a squirm against his crisp sheets made him emit a low whine.

His face flushed. It wasn’t the clean dry heat of a buzzing fan or a spinning belt. He was hot in a way that felt sweat-slick and voluptuous. He felt every centimeter an animal.

“Parasympathetic triggers,” he grunted, rubbing at his eyes with the tips of his fingers. He glowered at his problem. “Autonomic responses. My punishment for ignoring this piece of maintenance, hm?”

His penis did not make a sign to confirm nor to deny.

No, not a punishment. Punishments were ineffective tortures devised by nuns and teachers and authority figures already slumping into obsolescence. Punishments were rebukes for daring to want. Punishments were intended to remind him that whatever he wanted he could never, never have.

His body never punished him. It merely malfunctioned, blameless and pure as a lever.

“Think of it as machine learning,” he muttered to himself. His algorithm was quietly adjusting to every experience, discreetly permitting additional data to influence its processes. Some of his lovely little badniks did just the same thing; more charmingly, and with more bloodshed, but not wholly outside of the genre.

He took a rattling sigh and stretched against his sheets. He’d miscalculated. This present inefficiency was not a function of a want, but a need. Machines didn’t hate themselves for needing electricity, or coolant, or steam, or force, or purpose, or release. So too should his needs be met, or his system would no longer operate as designed.

It wasn’t anything to get excited about. He’d approach it like any trivial bug in a line of code.

 **Error:** He had an erection.

 **Run diagnostics.** Test results:

> He was untouched
> 
>   * The last time he’d manually stimulated himself in order to achieve orgasm had been approximately five years, three months, nine days, and 20 hours (hm, almost on the dot) ago. The stimulation had not resolved in a climax. He’d gotten bored and moved on to something else.
>   * In seventh grade a girl had been dared by her comrades to hug him and couldn’t bring herself to get the other arm around him. He had not felt human touch since; he got his first medical license in ninth grade and dentistry certificate soon after.
>   * He hated human beings.
> 

> 
> He was stressed
> 
>   * Status normal. Keeping up with the speed of his brain naturally applied stress to the body.
>   * Conference call earlier in the day. Two weeks in, Agent Stone had gotten them cordially uninvited from all but the bare minimum of regular calls, and furthermore he had recently learned sufficient sleight of hand to regularly mute their line when it looked like Robotnik was building up a head of steam. He’d only caught him at it twice so far. Since he was depriving the generals of the opportunity to learn how remarkably, how virtuosically stupid they were, he sentenced Stone to lay like a bearskin rug on the floor for 10 minutes so he would learn his place. 
>     * Eight minutes. He had a soft spot for really good prestidigitation.
>     * He also didn’t have to acknowledge the generals were speaking to him, if he was on mute. There were upsides.
> 

> 
> He was [REDACTED]
> 
>   * He hated human beings.
>   * The only thing worse than a cretin was a person with a 270 IQ. So close. So far.
>   * Today, Agent Stone had worn
>   * Today, Agent
>   * [REDACTED]
> 


**Troubleshooting.** Would you like to…

  * _Ignore it?_ Obviously yes, but that had landed him here in the first place.
  * _Investigate underlying issues?_ HELL, no.
  * _Attempt manual reset?_ Well, any port in a storm.



He slipped a hand under the sheets. His skin was hot to the touch. He let out a heavy sigh as his fingertips skimmed his blood-tight skin. It was worryingly intense, feeling his own touch without his gloves, his bare skin without a barrier. He gently gripped himself, thinking uncomfortably of holding a small, frail animal in one hand, and slid his loose fist up and back.

It didn’t feel like anything. Pleasant, perhaps. Mostly warm. Yes, that was his disgusting epidermis, clean and cared for and yet crawling with bacteria, pores and glands and probably eyelash mites (fuck but the second he tested positive for eyelash mites he was porting his consciousness into a robot—up to 80% of the population got them and _hell_ if he was going to be lumped in with them). A rigid tube of flesh. Boring.

How did anyone get this done? Maybe for their puny little brains the sensation was exciting enough to push them onward, but he was a man who’d had a staring contest with a black hole and won.

Robotnik shut his eyes and let his fingers idly drift. All right. Vivid fantasizing, then. What was he dreaming of, to put him in this state?

Major Whoever-the-Fuck. Or, wait, no— a ripple of revulsion flew down his spine and his erection flagged just a bit. Not him. Not him at all, but the smug lilt of Stone’s voice as he translated Robotnik’s words down to a level the tactical halfwit could understand, and the smirk he barely tried to suppress as Robotnik put the fool in his place.

His handsome face, all warm eyes and proud smile as he watched Robotnik’s glorious babies do the work of 300 apes with delusions of grandeur.

The way he said, “I can feel it, doctor.”

His throat clicked in a swallow. He gripped his tongue between his teeth. That was a thread, then: physical stimulation and the thought of Stone’s appreciation. Perhaps... his hips arched off the bed. Yes, there was something in the memory his laboratory's lights playing on the graceful curve of Stone’s spine, the set of his shoulders as Robotnik wheeled back and forth behind him. There was pleasure in recalling the bright attentive gaze at the screen, as Robotnik’s ingenious calculations appeared and proved the presence of the otherworldly here, now.

Robotnik breathed harshly through his nose. It was feeling better now, as it got slick. It felt dirty to be dripping from the slit (not like urinating but not wholly dissimilar). He was making a mess — his face burned in a blush. The messes he liked were motor oil and scrambled gears and blood. Not this. Not usually.

His hands were getting wet. He wasn’t used to them without gloves, the strange and terrifying sensation of being temporarily and painlessly declawed. Man was born without fur or fangs or tearing talons — all his species could rely upon were their wits. Robotnik was better provisioned than all the rest, but now… but here…

He was helpless. His dick leaked at the thought of it.

His breath came out in a soft huff. In another life — in the sort of life where he never would’ve met Robotnik, in a life where he was handsome and grimy and oil-slicked under an unforgiving Montana sun — Agent Stone might've been a remarkable mechanic.

The thought made heat bloom down his spine. The hands of a mechanic had to be more precise than a surgeon’s: a body could heal itself of little nicks and uncertain jabs of a needle, mistakes lost under scar tissue. But the crisp metal of a machine showed every little nick. One had to be precise, so incredibly gentle, to alter and to perfect without damage.

Stone had the hands for it. He would know his way around a machine, if Robotnik could ever offer it.

Fuck. Yes. One of his minor motherboard issues, something so simple a monkey could do it. Just so he could see Stone at work. Give him gloves and goggles and a soldering iron. Watch him put pieces back together and test his fixes, watch him making the minor miraculous changes that permitted circuits to flow, fast and deep.

Robotnik’s breath pounded deep into his belly, sliding past his upper chest and through his heart. The pressure and slide of his hand started to feel better, a slow and soft excitement that prickled over his nerves. He could just see it: his oscillating slotted bar rubbing up too close to the powl and ratchet of his elliptic trammel, distorting the impact load on his second hobbing, conveyed through to his helical gear. But if it weren’t? If something were wrong, and instead the antiparallel linkage on his friction drive wouldn’t disengage, and his wornwheeled pantograph couldn’t come into play…?

Robotnik whined from the chest. And… oh, and if his friction brake jammed?

Stone could be a mechanic. Stone could peel him apart, see what was under his hood, and know how to ease his tension. He imagined those clever hands inside him, tweaking and adjusting, taking diagnostics and dipsticks and confirming what his burning motor needed to ensure proper functioning. Palpitating his valves, teasing every gasket, opening up Robotnik to reveal his bridled furnaces and examine every single gear, transmission, gasoline engine, pressure boiler, flywheel, torsion manipulator. With his tongue.

Stone’s warm, direct eyes on Robontik's mainframe as Stone tuned Robotnik up until he purred, all pistons firing, gears grinding and belts clenching and his skin, his starving, aching skin finally touched and held and scratched by someone who _wanted_ him, wanted him like he couldn’t want, daren’t want.

(Wants were for the weak, and a weakling like him didn’t deserve them. Not treats, not more books, nor love, nor hugs— by stinking, watchful Christ, he couldn't think about this, not now, not now—)

Both hands under the sheets now. Stone could do it. With a little training, a little finesse… he’d seen Stone handle his guns and all the other equipment. Imagine being that man’s gun. Imagine being a weapon in that man’s hands, gently opened and double-checked to remove any lingering rounds, reamed with a rod and patches, scrubbed and lubricated. His action polished to a mirror shine or nearly, rubbed everywhere, everywhere, with a luster cloth until he gleamed, until every time the agent drew him it was with the satisfaction of using a beautiful, cherished machine…

He needed to be safe. Needed to be in that man’s holster, pressed to his side, comfortable and warm and guarded by the strong body of his agent. Close. Not too close. Not enough to hurt.

Gripped in an almost prayerful grasp, his penis ached and drooled all over his fingers. His lungs worked in tight little pants, mind finally slowed to a crawl as he forced the image of Stone inserting his connecting rod — fuck! fuck…? — his hard penis into Ivo’s ass, taking him and _fucking_ him and forcing him to feel like the animal he was.

His hips stuttered and shook up into his hands, breath cutting in a sharp gasp as his muscles clenched without his permission. Even his mind wasn’t strong enough to stay aloof, gripped for a moment, maybe two, in a peace and luxury finer than anything cold silver or cold steel could buy. He pulled his hands down in slow, shallow moves, disgusted by the mess, thrilled by his filthiness.

The pressure was gone.

 **Manual reset status:** Successful.

**Restart to install updates.**

Robotnik smeared his emission over a corner of the sheets and closed his eyes, imagining his carburetor, his fool heart, slowing back to his proscribed optimum rhythm. This was more energy than he’d wanted to expend. He’d have to recoup it in the next few hours.

He drifted, soft and alone and quietly [REDACTED] beneath his sheets, half-dreaming of fingertips skimming his chassis and a warm mouth on his intake valve — pressing against his lips. Touching him with no attention to function, none to need.

Spent and slackened, he let his motors whirl down. A late day tomorrow. Perhaps not even out of bed. He could invent in his dreams.

Especially — he snuggled deeper into the pillows, deliberately not thinking of Stone’s contagious smile — now that he wouldn’t give these insipid wants another thought.


End file.
